


To Whom It May Concern

by countessofbiscuit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bo-Katan's Gap Year(s), Bounty Hunters, Cuy'val Dar, F/M, Mandalore, Mandalorian Fetts, Masturbation, Negotiations, References to Jango Fett: Open Seasons, circa 32 BBY, i see disney's decanonization and raise them this, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 09:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: Adrift and aimless, Bo-Katan would follow the one they used to callMand'alorinto oblivion. Whether he'll let her is another matter.





	To Whom It May Concern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lzg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzg/gifts).



Three jobs in a row. 

Three cold bounties he’s found with this sigil carved into their foreheads, concave lines diving into a point between bloodied brows. He’d collected on the first two anyway, but this one was wanted alive. That should’ve been easy. Just a matter of keeping the hut’uun from hypothermia long enough to take advantage of the carbon-freezing infrastructure here on Polus, a raw testicle of a planet hanging between the Celanon Spur and the Braxant Run.

A stalactite of blood dangles from the corpse’s nose, and Jango flicks it off with his forefinger. He definitely needs a word with his mysterious benefactor. Whoever it is doesn't want the credits. They want him. And this time, fresh tracks in the snow, flecked with red and bearing towards only one-droid-town on this hemisphere, say they wished to be found. _Now._

Thundersnow is rolling in from the northeast, and not even _Slave I_ can break atmo until it blows over. Time enough for a drink and a rumble, then, before the tedious work of sweeping his ship’s sliced communications array. 

Jango’s boots swallow the tracks as he goes along, crushing them deeper into the frost. They’d be slight, this interloper. Humanoid, probably not unlike Zam when she feels like pulling. Things could get nasty. 

The Pyn’gani are reclusive, mining folk, but the settlement he arrives at is for the truly friendless: a handful of modular stone lodges, huddling just inside the perimeter of this shield generator, with no intention of cozying up to their neighbors. A healthy level of mistrust lurks. He’ll fit right in, in his reclaimed armor and his reforged grief, a steel monument to violence held in reserve. 

Jango zeroes in on the lodge with the greatest heat signature; that isn't saying much, here, but there will probably be drinks. He ducks inside the sunken door frame, and the grizzled publican takes one look at him before waving him around to the other side of the bar. He pulls back a curtain and grunts upwards to the stairs behind it, eager for trouble to get out of his sight, however much he’d been paid to accommodate it. Jango complies, taking the steps sideways, helmet cocked and blaster primed. 

A figure glows through the floorboards. A warm life-form, seated and motionless, their radiation outlined by the telltale density of beskar. He's dealing with a Mandalorian. Should’ve figured that from the mark—so like wings, or the eyes of some lethal bird. Somehow, it's both better and worse news. 

Jango halts at the door. He pushes it open with one hand, his other arm ready to engulf the room in flames if he doesn't like the look of the stranger. A narrow cot pressed into a corner comes into view—then a slim, helmeted person reclining in a chair behind a wooden table, laid out with two large jugs. The dusky blue-grey of the stranger’s armor is unfamiliar, but the sigil on their helmet is not. 

“You got my message,” they say, in a hard feminine voice. 

Jango lets his arm fall but doesn't enter. “This will be an expensive meeting for you. I needed him alive.”

“I’m cheap.”

 _Unprincipled and cocky, too._ “He wasn’t.” 

“You’re recruiting. My fee will be minimal.”

 _“Me’ven?”_ he barks, frowning behind his visor. 

“Ni boracyk,” they answer in kind, their accent crisp and unaffected. A system native, and probably someone who hadn’t always been cheap. 

“Who _are_ you.” Her armor registers no match on his HUD, except the holos of the heads she’s left for him to find. 

The stranger shrugs. “A blaster for hire.” She reaches for one of the drinks, but doesn't remove her helmet, declaring her nerves with every spin of the jug. It steams with something that likely isn't shig, but a man can hope. 

“If that’s the sort of job interview you’re used to, you’re already unfit.” He makes a feint backwards, ready to be just as evasive if it will force her hand. 

Replacing the jug, the stranger lifts her helmet, shakes loose a messy red braid, and reveals a face that belonged to a princess in a tower. _Vau’s lost love._ Dead to him and—so far as Jango knew—dead to the world. 

To call this woman a pale imitation would’ve been an injustice; she has more shereshoy in her green eyes and resolve in her jaw than the princess ever had. And suddenly Jango remembers the name of the third daughter of Clan Kryze, a name fit for a child who’d come out of the womb with a body count. 

So, Bo-Katan lives. Kalevala’s other lost royal doesn't feel lost enough, and she wants the kind of obscurity only he can offer. 

_“No.”_

Bo-Katan scowls. “I’ve just proven I can do your job better than you.”

How fortunate for her. He's about to enter semi-retirement, and the less she appears to know about what he's recruiting for, the better her odds of leaving this room alive. 

Jango shakes his head as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “You’re out on other grounds.” He removes his own helmet, as is polite, but drags the empty chair away from the table and sits down at a marked distance. 

“Trattok’e be’buir …” she spits into one jug as she swipes the other, petulantly. 

_More like the sins of your sisters._ But he’ll let her think this is about her father’s rage and his slavish reconciliation with Sundari, once he’d cast off his first daughter and sold his honor for the second. 

And here sits the neglected third, eager to fade from memory. Kamino won't be the place for that. Vau’s memory is longer, and this would sit about as well with him as a fire wasp on a mott’s hide. _Shab, but she looks just like her..._

“You need Mandalorians willing to disappear,” continues Bo-Katan. She thunks her emptied jug on the table and gestures with open arms at some nonexistent crowd.

Jango bristles. “Who told you that.” 

The silence that follows grows thick, sliced only by the _shukkk!_ of a vibroblade ejecting from a gauntlet. 

“... Reau.”

“Well, that disqualifies both of you,” he lies, impugning her honor to throw her off the scent. If only he could shake off that shabla Death Watch sympathizer so easily. 

Jango had already killed a number of people he could have hired, courtesy of Tyranus's thorough vetting process; now he's reduced to roping in fringe elements—those who might have rolled to young Vizsla, had he shown his hand instead of kissing the Duchess’s. Half the reason he's taking Priest is to keep him in lockdown, and that shabuir won't come without his pissy Issy.

“And a word of advice,” he adds, “Reau’s clan is a bag of mad chags. Find a better one.” 

“I have no clan. Dar’tome. Like you. Why am I not good enough?!”

“I don’t have to tell you a shabla—” 

“I am _not_ my sister,” she cuts over him, dumping both boots on the floor and leaning forward in earnest. “I am _not_ a dupe of the Jedi. Or a deluded romantic.”

Jango has serious doubts on that last point, but her mistrust of the Jedi is endearing, if too overt. She wouldn't like this job. Kamino would smother her or make her wild. Besides, that kind of anti-Jedi sentiment on the outside will be useful in the coming years. Give them a plausible straw man. 

“Job’s full up. And you’re too young to disappear,” he says, calmly. 

It's a point she can't argue, and after a few moments, she visibly relaxes, taking the second jug with her when she falls back into her chair. A fresh ruddiness has spread across her cheeks. This room isn't warm, but she is, and the grin she flashes him might've melted any other man.

“At least give me something to remember the last Mand’alor by.”

Stars, she's tragic. She needs a cause, and he can't be it. Neither can his army—though there are bound to be a few running spare, when everything is over, and he smiles inwardly at the the thought of them rallying around her. Give it a few years and she’d do the job credibly. 

“The last Mand’alor? Set your sights a little higher.” 

She puts back some more … whatever it is and nibbles her bottom lip between perfect teeth. Definitely aristo. 

“Mmmm, I’m thinking lower,” she purrs, dropping her gaze from his face for the first time. It settles on where he’d let his thighs fall open, and at this range, he can almost imagine the bright green of her eyes on his silver codplate.

“No thanks,” he says, not bothering to shift his seat. 

Bo-Katan arches a brow, indicating at the lone window, where globs of snow pelt the pane and lightning flashes sporadically. “Got something better to do?” 

“No.” 

“Then you won’t mind if I … ?” She trails off to take another swill, but twiddles two fingers just above the table for his benefit. 

Flattered, but unmoved, he just shrugs and hopes she’ll let him nurse the rest of that beverage, if she's going to pleasure herself. He's careful to point at the jug, so there can be no mistaking his meaning. “May I?”

Slowly, Bo-Katan pushes the table across the floor with her boots. She gets up and stalks around it, those strikingly long legs coming to stand between his open knees as she hands him the jug, half-empty and no longer steaming. At least it gives his hands something to do. 

Stepping backwards to situate herself on top of the table, she mirrors his languid pose, spreading her thighs wide and wrapping her ankles around the wooden legs. She might have stayed in the chair, but if it helps her get off by being so awkwardly close, fine. It isn't a bad view, all told. 

Her armor is neat, though the rest of her outfit has seen seen better days. She should’ve collected on those bounties and hijacked his ship. Could’ve proven herself without the theatrics … but that's thinking like a bounty hunter, not a Mandalorian. 

Unclipping her shabby belt, Bo-Katan shoves her hand into the lower half of her fitted flight suit. Jango watches the flat plane of her crotch swell over her hand. Her arousal is now very obvious—a dark patch, where it had soaked through. She’s been growing wet across the room from him, probably weakened by alcohol and desperation. 

Bo-Katan wiggles her fingers against herself—inside herself—her knuckles beading under the stretched fabric. The little movements wouldn’t have done much for him, but she starts to breathe heavily and every muscle he can see grows taut. Might’ve bounced a decicred off her abs. 

“Fuck me, touching myself in front of the Mand’alor,” she teases, green eyes hooded and hungry as she sweeps over his lips, down his plated chest, to where his cock is starting to feel pinched. His suit is uncomfortably bunched up into his shebs, but if he shifts now, he might just make everything worse and then he’d have to rub one out, too. He’d rather not. 

“‘s funny,” she goes on, her hand pulsing more rapidly now as she fucks herself on her fingers, “half the system thinks we’re both dead.” The table shakes underneath her, creaking in time with her faint whines. Bo-Katan twists her boots out and onto his knees, pushing down with each small thrust of her hips. “I think I could die for you.” 

Jango finally moves. He's concerned for the integrity of the table, and the drink is cold anyway. He sets it down along with his helmet, and grabs the wooden legs, pulling her and the table forward, holding them both steady. 

“ _Don’t._ Not for anyone.” 

Her fool of a sister had, and for what? So the elites in Sundari, led by that coddled Duchess, could claim her as a martyr, and Vau could finally become the iciest chakaar this side of a vacuum? 

Hopeless romantics, Clan Kryze. Bo’ could be so much better than that … even as she's falling apart in front of his face. 

She hasn't closed her eyes, though. She isn't hiding. Her stare is fixed on his mouth, and Jango can guess what she wants. He’d be lying to say the thought hasn't crossed his mind—Fett the Vhett, suckling from the royal fount. Her flight suit, soiled and sticky, lets off a heady smell, like a cockpit when two punch-drunk warriors were reminding themselves why it was always a better day for someone else to die. He continues to hold the table firm, and her shins press against his biceps. The hand not shoved into her besh supports her torso, and it too shakes under her mounting efforts, as she writhes into her fingers. Touching her now might ruin whatever sad fantasy she's fondling herself to. He decides to leave it. 

Jango calls to her instead, softly, and her hips jerk into the attention. So he does it again. And again. Repeating her name in a voice that he might use on a sleeping lieutenant, while she strokes and fucks herself, her eyes finally pinching shut. 

_“Bo-Katan … Bo-Katan … Bo-Katan … Bo— ”_

Her entire body spasms. _“Shabii ni!"_ she gasps, breathlessly, quietly. Her heels grind into the tops of his knees, before her boots slip off to either side and her legs go limp with a shudder. 

She drags her hand out from her crotch, deliberately, and she surprises him by not doing anything vulgar with the result of her distraction.

Jango releases the table legs and rests his hands in his lap. Once it's clear he doesn't intend to use them, she sighs, her head lolling onto her shoulder. 

“You really aren’t going to take me with you, huh.”

“No.”

“What am I supposed to do when you no longer exist?” 

“Besides keep your mouth shut?” he growls, pressing his gauntlets into her kneecaps. “Because if you yak like Reau, you may find I do very much exist.”

An acidic grin peels her thin lips and she nods. Jango reaches for her braid, gently tugging her forward, till she's bent double on the table, and he can smell the alcohol on her mouth and count the freckles on her cheeks. Cupping her pale face in his rough hands, he brings their foreheads together. 

“You’re going to fight. Not for credits. Not for your honor. Not even for your clan. But for Mandalore. All of it.” 

_Because your sister sure as shab won’t._

“And what about you? Going dar’manda with a bunch of other deadbeats?” 

She's drunk and disappointed. He lets the jab slide. 

“I’ll do my part, you can be sure of that,” he says, dragging his fingers through her hair until they engulf her skull, putting the force of his hands behind his words. “K’oyacyi.”

 _Stay alive._ Survive the coming chaos. Because if Jango Fett isn't welcome on Mandalore now, his Republic-branded offshoots probably won't be either. No amount of Mando cant, picked up from their medley of sergeants—the likes of Bralor, and Vau, and, stars help them, _Priest_ —will change the fact that they’ll be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some soft-spoken Jetii and carrying a big blaster. Until Tyranus’s plan comes to fruition—and maybe beyond, Tyranus’s vision is probably bigger than he's paid to know—they’ll only taint the tihaar. 

This warrior, though, this Mando’ad, rootless, ruthless, and keen … Jaster would’ve liked her. Jango likes to think his faith isn't misplaced. 

He bumps his brow against hers one final time, grabs his helmet, and stands to leave, repeating his command. “K’oyacyi, dha’cenaar.”

Behind him, Bo-Katan laughs. “Whatever you say, Mand’alor. I’ll watch for you in the dark.”

**Author's Note:**

> Paid-up subscriber to [this great theory](http://izzyovercoffee.tumblr.com/post/173472681640/lmao-sorry-for-everyone-whos-out-of-the-loop-i) linking an infamous commando sergeant with a missing Kryze sibling. 
> 
> _Me'ven_ = what? huh?  
>  _Ni boracyk_ = I'm in between jobs  
>  _Trattok'e be'buir_ = the sins of the father (lit. the failings of the parent)  
>  _Shabii ni_ = fuck me  
>  _dha'cenaar_ = my translation for 'nite owl'


End file.
